Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

‘I’m listening.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  I hold his gaze. ‘But it’s my answer. I’d find it a whole lot easier to trust you if you gave me back my weapons.’

  North glances towards Carly. She nods, and the expression on her face makes me wonder exactly what the dynamic is between them.

  ‘All your stuff is ready for you whenever you want it.’ He ladles Thai red curry into our bowls and puts a dish of steaming rice in the middle of the island unit. ‘Eat.’

  I take a mouthful, and it’s good. Real good. ‘Alright, tell me what the other way is.’

  ‘The trial I was due to give evidence at was a homicide. It’s on the public record; easy to check. A young guy, barely twenty, was up for killing an accountant. The case was a slam dunk: the kid’s prints were on the knife used to stab the victim; the man’s blood was on the kid’s clothes, which the cops found stuffed in the back of his closet. There was an eyewitness who put the kid at the scene.’

  I frown. Not sure what this has to do with me. ‘Like you said, sounds a sure thing.’

  ‘Yeah, except the kid didn’t do it; he was the patsy.’

  ‘Okay. So how does this link to our situation?’

  ‘The accountant was the Old Man’s finance guy. His firm oversaw all the Miami Mob’s income and expenditure – he knew everything about the family business and he was loyal to the Old Man. It was his loyalty that got him killed.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not following you, how can—?’

  ‘Luciano killed the accountant. He’d uncovered that Luciano had been stealing from his father for years – at least ten, maybe longer. He’d been clever, hidden behind things that looked legitimate, but in the last year he’d gotten more sloppy. That’s when the accountant found something that looked strange and started tracing it back. Once he did that the whole trail unravelled like a ball of yarn.’

  ‘So Luciano silenced him and the kid was taking the fall.’

  ‘Yeah. And I’m sure Luciano told the kid he’d be paid well for it. But the truth is they’d have gotten to him in prison. He’d have been dead within the first month.’

  ‘So you stepped in.’

  ‘I went to the Feds and told them I’d testify against Luciano.’

  I shake my head. It doesn’t stack up right. ‘Why would the Feds believe you?’

  ‘They’re desperate for something on the family. I just needed to steer them towards Luciano, it was easy enough.’

  ‘But why not fix it yourself? Why involve law enforcement? Aren’t you the law when it comes to the family?’

  North rubs his hand across his chin. ‘He’s the Old Man’s son. I could have ended him myself, but the Old Man wouldn’t have stood for it. I wanted him to see his son had gone bad, but for that he’d need to see hard evidence. I had to have proof; I had to get copies of the accountant’s files. But they’d been seized by the Feds.’

  What he’d done hits me. ‘Jeez, you played the goddamn FBI?’

  ‘I got what I needed without them knowing, and they got the truth about the homicide. It was a fair deal.’

  I let out a long whistle. ‘You’ve sure got some balls. And I see all this is useful to you getting back into favour with the Old Man, but how does it help me?’

  ‘The proof I have of what Luciano stole means the Old Man will believe me when I say I didn’t go rogue. He’ll understand I did what I did to protect him. I’m his number two – he’ll listen to me when I tell him that your debt is paid.’

  What he says is starting to make sense, but there’s a flaw to his plan. ‘What if the Old Man doesn’t believe you? Spreadsheets and documents can be faked. It’ll be your word against Luciano’s, and you’re the one who’s been spending time with the Feds.’

  North takes a mouthful of curry and chews slowly. He nods. ‘There’s something else that will help. I’ve kept it safe for a good few years; thought it might be a useful lifeline one of these days. Looks like that day could be here.’

  ‘So get it.’

  ‘We’ll get it tomorrow. First thing.’

  I raise an eyebrow. Sure don’t like the way North thinks he can call the shots here. ‘We will?’

  ‘It’s inside the First Fourth Bank vault in downtown Tallahassee.’

  34

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21st, 22:56

  The couch is more comfortable than it looks and a whole lot nicer than the gurney, but I can’t get to sleep. North wouldn’t tell me what it is that he needs to get from the First Fourth vault, but the way he talked about it gives me a horrible feeling that whatever it is, it has something to do with me. There was something in his expression as he spoke – something I’ve only seen once before, all those years back when he’d found me after Tommy had been beating on me. Now my mind is whirling at double speed. What the hell does he have inside that bank vault?

  I look up towards the mezzanine. North and Carly are in the bedroom together, so I guess I know what their relationship is now. But Carly herself is an enigma. It bothers me, not knowing more about her.

  Getting up, I walk barefoot across the room to the far wall. Behind a concealed door that blends so perfectly into the slightly textured wall you’d never find it if you weren’t looking, I visit the downstairs bathroom. It’s as minimalist as the rest of the place: stylish, with white fixtures and chrome fittings, and real expensive for sure.

  Back in the open living space, I close the door behind me and stare back at the wall. The bathroom takes about half the length of the room – down to the corner with the reinforced entrance door. I wonder what’s behind the rest of the wall space. Another room? Storage? Like an earworm that won’t quit playing, I can’t shake the question from my mind.

  I can’t help but investigate. Feeling along the wall, I look for another recessed button like the one that opens the bathroom door when slight pressure is applied. I walk the length of the wall, step by step, my fingers feeling, testing every inch.

  I’m a half-yard from the corner near the kitchen when I find it. I press the button and a recessed door opens with a soft pop. Slowly, not wanting to wake Carly and North upstairs, I pull open the door.

  What the hell? I sure don’t know what I’d been expecting to find, but it wasn’t this: metal lockers – three rows of five – built into the hidden space. Each locker door is fastened with a heavy-duty padlock, and bears a nameplate. Of the fifteen lockers, eleven of them have names. The middle locker of the middle row says North.

  Who the hell is Carly? She seems to live here, but what kind of woman keeps her guest bedroom as a pop-up medical facility and has a mini locker-room behind a hidden door? I walk along the line of lockers. They have family names only so there’s no way to tell if the people they belong to are male or female. I glance up towards the bedroom. Eleven people, one bedroom. I wonder if Carly shares her bed with all of them. I smile to myself. Fair play to her if she does.

  Closing the door, I head back to the couch. I sit down and reach to check my go bag is still where I put it. It is. At least now I have it back; my weapons and my gear. Knowing where they are makes me feel more confident, because, although we might be safe here a while, lying low, we’re still a long way from being free and clear.

  On the wall-mounted flat-screen television, I watch the local news channels cycle through their stories. We’re still news, but have been relegated to third place now; beatings and robbery taking the top spots – more violence every day. It makes me feel fearful for the world I’ve brought my daughter into, and makes me more determined to protect her.

  I clench my fists, fighting the urge to put my cellphone back together and call JT. I hate the not knowing how he is. Not knowing whether he got Dakota safe, and where they are now. Hate that this job is pulling us apart.

  A change in the news update catches my eye. The footage has changed from the crime scene to the outside of the rest-stop motel North and me stayed at. The reporter is talking. Beside her is the FBI agent in charge of the sea
rch for us. I turn up the volume.

  ‘…sightings of the two fugitives, Lori Anderson and Carlton North, were made at this motel earlier today. I’m joined now by FBI Special Agent Jackson Peters. Agent Peters, what do we know about the fugitives and how long will it be before you find them?’

  Jackson Peters’ expression fails to conceal his irritation at the question he’s been asked. ‘I want to assure the public that we are doing everything in our power to find these fugitives. FBI and local law enforcement are working around the clock. We have a confirmed sighting of our fugitives getting into a black Range Rover outside this motel earlier today. We’ve set up roadblocks on all the main highways. So, rest assured, we’re closing the net.’

  As the reporter hands back to the studio I mute the sound. Roadblocks? That sure doesn’t sound good.

  Once we’ve got into the bank vault, how the hell are we going to get back to Miami?

  35

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 07:43

  I don’t sleep well. Dreams of being chased, of Dakota slipping through my grasp into water, of JT getting shot, haunt me. I wake with my heart pounding, hot with sweat, and the blanket North gave me twisted and knotted around me like a straitjacket.

  Wrestling free, I stand and walk across to the kitchen for a glass of water. I lean back against the island unit and gaze out of the huge window at the Tallahassee skyline. The sun is up and there’s a whisper of mist across the tops and around the sides of the buildings, like they’ve been wrapped in cotton wool.

  I take another sip of water. I’m done with inaction. My arm feels a damn sight better, and North’s back on his meds. As far as I’m concerned that’s as good as we’re going to get, so we need to get gone. If North insists we need what’s at the bank, we’ll give it a go this morning but, whatever happens, I’m getting us back on the road before noon. In this life nothing comes to the people who wait. You want something done, you’ve got to get right on at it yourself.

  ‘North,’ I yell up the stairs. ‘You up?’

  The bedroom door opens and Carly appears. She’s wearing a faded Aerosmith tee, denim shorts and fluffy boot slippers, and carrying a wicker basket with what looks like laundry.

  She comes down the stairs and puts the basket down in front of me. ‘These clothes should fit. There’s hair dye in there, scissors too.’ She passes me a photo. ‘You’re going to need to look like this to get into the bank.’

  The woman in the picture has a sleek brunette bob and green eyes. There’s something about her that seems strangely familiar, although I’m pretty certain we’ve never met. One thing is for sure; she looks nothing like me. ‘What the hell do you—?’

  Carly holds up her hand, already turning to go back upstairs. ‘North will explain. We leave in one hour.’

  I clench my fists as she disappears back into the bedroom and mutter under my breath, ‘Is that right? Since when is he the one calling the damn shots?’

  Slamming my glass down onto the island unit, I bound up the stairs two at a time. Shoving open the bedroom door, I see North still in bed, his hair tousled, his face crumpled from sleep. Carly looks at me, then exits into the bathroom.

  ‘I’m done with you keeping me in the dark.’ I brandish the photograph at North. ‘What’s with the game of dress-up? Tell me the whole truth or I’m not doing a thing.’

  ‘What I need is in a safety deposit box. The bank needs both account holders present to validate the access.’

  ‘You want me to help you break into a bank?’

  ‘The account is mine. It’s just not in the name you know me by.’

  I hold up the picture. ‘And this woman?’

  He keeps staring at my face, doesn’t look at the photo. ‘It’s in her fake name too.’

  ‘Won’t she be pissed you’ve opened the box without her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You went to all the trouble of setting up a deposit box together. How are you so sure?’

  He exhales hard and looks away. ‘Because she’s dead.’ There’s a muscle pulsing in his neck, and a look of anguish on his face.

  I wonder who killed her; hope it wasn’t him. ‘You want to talk about it?’

  He glances towards the bathroom. Shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ I look at the photo. Whatever North isn’t saying about his relationship with this woman, it’s obvious they were more than just friends. ‘So I change my appearance; then what?’

  ‘We go to First Fourth Bank and get my stuff.’

  ‘You know our picture is all over the news channels. There’s roadblocks set up on all the major roads.’

  ‘They’re not looking for us in Tallahassee though; the FBI will be thinking that we’re heading back to Miami. We’re okay downtown.’

  He’s right, but that doesn’t help us for after. ‘Okay, so assuming we get to First Fourth, we’re just going to walk into the bank? You think it’ll be that easy?’

  ‘Easy? No. Possible? Yes.’ He holds my gaze. ‘We’re only going to get one shot at convincing the Old Man that we’re on the level. Stands to reason we should have all the ammunition with us when we do.’

  I nod. It’s a risk going into the bank for sure, but the Old Man needs to believe what North tells him. I need the price on my and my family’s heads lifted. And, right now, our plan is the only way I can broker safety for the ones I love.

  36

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 09:03

  Glossy brown bob, green contact lenses, dark eye make-up. Navy pant suit, high heels and a designer purse. This woman I’m staring at in the mirror sure doesn’t look a thing like me, but according to the ID North’s handed me, and the anguished look on his face as he turned away, she looks enough like Nicole Bendrois to be passable.

  Bendrois: I remember that name. Last night, in the concealed area I discovered, it was written on the nameplate of the locker next to North’s. I wonder if the ID came from the locker; perhaps North knew the combination for the lock. It feels real strange to be dressed up like his dead friend.

  Carly drives. Her hair’s hidden in an orange and pink scarf and huge oval shades swamp her face like a cartoon Jackie O. Beside her, North looks different too. His dark hair is highlighted with greys, and his stubble has been replaced with a very realistic fake beard. He’s still wearing his leather jacket, but over smart pants rather than jeans, and he wears black brogues and a lavender polo shirt. Before we left Carly swapped the Florida licence plates on the Range Rover to Chicago ones, added two lamps to the front rig, and a Go Bulls! sticker to the rear fender. It seems we’ve all had a makeover.

  First Fourth sits on a corner towards the edge of downtown. It’s a new building, all pale brick and fancy landscaping, with little hedges and flowers around the outside, and it has its own parking lot, meaning we can get close to the entrance. Carly pulls into a space opposite the glass doors and kills the engine.

  North turns in his seat. ‘You ready?’

  I know the plan. It’s solid. It’s time to test if it works.

  I nod. Put my hand on the door release. ‘Yeah. Let’s get this done.’

  Carly waits in the car as North and me walk across the lot to the bank. The morning sun is high overhead and I feel hot and out-of-place in the smart pant suit and towering heels. I wish I was back in my faded jeans and leather jacket, and that I had my weapon with me. But this isn’t a job where a Taser would be an advantage. This is a game of chance, and bluffing is the only hand we’ve been dealt.

  The entrance foyer to the bank is a big, open-plan space with offices along one side and teller windows along the other. To our right is a waiting area of red sofas, and on the back wall is a heavy door with a keypad. I notice the security camera facing directly at the door and guess that’s the way to the vault.

  There’s a greeter a little ways inside, who smiles as we approach her. I glance back towards the door we just came through. The two muscled-up security guys either side of it are showing no hint of a smile.r />
  ‘Bradley Knox and Nicole Bendrois to see your personal securities manager,’ says North.

  The greeter’s smile widens. ‘Of course. Welcome, Mr Knox.’ She looks towards me. ‘Ms Bendrois. Can I take some ID?’

  North passes her his fake driving licence. I do the same with Nicole Bendrois’.

  The greeter takes a look at them both then taps something on the tablet she’s holding. She hands the IDs back to North. ‘Can I ask which type of account you hold?’

  ‘We have the joint Premier Executive Securities Service.’ He glances at me. Takes my hand. ‘And we’d like to access our deposit box.’

  ‘No problem, Mr Knox. Please take a seat in the waiting area. Your account manager will prepare the paperwork and be out in a moment.’

  We sit facing each other on a pair of matching couches. The left sleeve of my jacket is tighter, the bandage around my upper arm adding extra bulk, and my eyes feel dry and itchy from the unfamiliar contact lenses, but I try to keep relaxed. Don’t want to draw suspicion. I glance casually around the bank. Three of the glass-walled offices are occupied, and there are four tellers behind the counters. Along with the greeter and the security guys, that makes ten employees within ten yards of us. There’s no obvious fire exit marked, meaning that, if this goes bad, the only way for us to get out is back through the main entrance. Ten against two, and two of the ten with weapons. I’d say that puts the odds at about thirty/seventy in their favour.

  ‘You good?’ North asks.

  ‘Sure.’ I notice he doesn’t give me eye contact, instead keeping his gaze just past my right ear. I figure it has something to do with the way I look, or more specifically who I look like.

  ‘Mr Knox, Ms Bendrois?’

  We both look up to see a bald guy with a neat beard and horn-rimmed glasses smiling down at us.

  ‘I’m Jonathan Decker, the account manager on duty today for our Premier Executive clients. If you’d like to come through to the office.’